


Colour Me Splendid

by Noctis_Valentine



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Bonding over the bottle, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Pre-friendship romance, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, playful banter, vague mention of past abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-30
Updated: 2016-08-30
Packaged: 2018-08-11 23:37:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7911970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Noctis_Valentine/pseuds/Noctis_Valentine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The aftermath of propriety, Payne decides, is worth her inevitable hangover.</i>
</p>
<p>In which Fenris makes an inquiry, and Hawke obliges him with fodder from her youth. </p>
<p>Pre-Friendship Romance, set one year after Fenris is recruited into the DA2 trash squad. Painfully (head)canon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Colour Me Splendid

**Author's Note:** _So I came into Dragon Age with absolutely no expectations or knowledge whatsoever of the story, or even its characters. Other than my experience with Jade Empire (my favourite Bioware title hands down), I had no idea how much I'd come to love this game franchise._

_Also an ironic footnote on my descent into DA2 hell; I customised my Hawke with white hair and green eyes, not knowing anything of Fenris until he sauntered into my life. A match made in heaven, methinks. And what started as a gag-name (Payne) has since become painfully fucking canon, made even better with the discovery that Hawke's younger brother's name was, praise be, **Carver** of all things. Lol. This shall prove to be great crack material for future stories, surely._

-x.x- 

.  
**Categories:** Some quality (tooth-rotting) Friendship Fluff/Pre-Friendship Romance  
**Rating:** T (for some crude language)  
**Pairing:** Fenris x F!Hawke (Warrior)  
-x.x-

______________________________________________________________________

 

There was a pregnant moment of silence as Payne paused, as if in thought. An expectant glint traversed all too fleetingly through Fenris's green eyes, and Hawke found herself wanting for it with startling clarity. Rarely did the handsome Tevinter elf allow his collected, if not a little aloof, countenance to slip, so to find his interest so implicitly intertwined with her...? Well, it certainly didn't help the constant fluttering of butterflies frothing at the bit in her tummy, that was for sure. 

His dark skin, offset by the almost incandescent quality to his frost-coloured hair and the ghostly lines of lyrium imbued beneath his flesh, was bathed in the warmth of firelight. They sat cross-legged on the dilapidated floor of the mansion he was currently squatting in, courtesy of his former master Danarius; taking generous swigs of cheapened wine directly from the mouth of the bottle as they passed it back and forth between them. It was Hawke's turn, apparently, and she took a moment to revel in the sturdy weight of the base of it in her hand as she contemplated her response. 

The pair had spent the better half of the evening engaging in playful banter. It was hardly what Payne had expected, to be perfectly honest. She had stopped by his manse to pay him for his services on their latest quest, and they had struck up a stream of conversation that quickly moved well and truly past the point of polite. He had invited her in, then, once the pleasantries had well and truly expired, for it was rude to leave a guest standing in one's doorway. She had obliged him, a little surprised at the easy admittance. 

Aveline almost always had to knock the door down to get his undivided attention, and she was one of the few in their motley little crew that he actually deigned worthy of his time. So it became quite apparent to Hawke that perhaps she was well liked enough that her presence was seen as welcome, rather than an incursion of his wrath. And Maker's breath did he have that _in spades._ Fenris manoeuvred them through the worst of the rotting floorboards, pausing to nudge a badly decaying corpse aside so as to clear the path for Payne, expression nonplussed as one of the mangled limbs (it was, perhaps, an arm?) crumbled away from its prone ligament joint. 

Payne had sent him a looking swimming with disapproval at that, to which his response was to grunt noncommittally; and she had cursed the very sound of it, for it was rich velvet to her ears, and never failed to make her flesh tingle with something akin to pleasure. It wasn't any glorified secret that she found the elf attractive. Many passersby had double taken at the sight of his rather majestic profile as he stalked down the streets in Hightown with her ( _their_ ) companions, and irrespective of his perpetual scowl and atypically broody demeanour, they were no less put off by him. 

In passing, he made for quite the sight, Payne was sure. But as for the kind of person he was beyond mere superfluous aesthetics? Well. He was arguably one of the most difficult men she had ever had the pleasure of knowing, and so it came as a surprise to her that despite his tendency to be one very volatile storm cloud all the nug-buggering time, she harboured... _feelings_... For him. Nothing quite so serious as to warrant concern, but she had definitely warmed to his presence in the year that he had been with her group for. She had begun pestering him about his lack of eating habits, proclaiming that _“Wine is in no way supplementary to your diet, as it is more liquor than fruit, Fenris.”_

As usual, he had shrugged off her good intentions with a moody scoff, green eyes the only real indication of his amusement as he took her nagging in stride. If monitoring his abysmal dietary patterns wasn't bad enough, then the fact that she had taken to picking up little knickknacks for him whenever he elected not to join her out in the field pretty much hammered the nail into her coffin. 

They were only small things, of course, perhaps inconsequential to the untrained eye, but in the months that Payne had known him for, she had picked up on the subtle hints his body gave off whenever he saw something that was pleasing to his eye. Whether it be a specific vintage he enjoyed, or perhaps a set of polished blades that could be used to booby trap his mansion—Hawke was sure to tuck the information away for later, using what coin she had managed to earn from her share of the group's cut to make an informed purchase when she had a free moment to do so. 

Fenris always looked genuinely surprised by her generosity, unused to being on the receiving end of gifts and unsure of how to accept the tokens of her (mounting) affection. He had confided in her once after three bottles of awful spirits, very vaguely, that he was used to _being gifted_ to other Magisters in the Tevinter Imperium for things she would rather never ponder upon. 

He implied a lot of things, without ever having to say a word. It was written in the discomforted slouch of his shoulders, like the expectation to be hit loomed like death over his lithe form. In the way he visibly tensed when you stepped too close, invaded the comfortable distance he had unwittingly established between himself and the rest of the world. In the distrustful, almost hateful, gleam in his eyes as he verbally flayed all of whom would dare impose themselves upon him. 

He fidgeted and shifted and was incapable of remaining still for extended periods of time, like he was ready for a fight at the drop of a pin. He was as easily cowed as he was intimidating when someone stared him in the eye for much longer than was polite or anticipated. Fenris was many things: a former slave to an unkind mage who abused his power over him at every given chance; an enigma within an enigma, a puzzle that not even he, the man himself, could solve; battered, but not yet broken. He had survived through what could only be described as living hell, and had become stronger for it. 

Payne had only the utmost admiration and respect for his circumstances, and although at times his adamant and scathing remarks about mages did cause dissent amongst the ranks, she could empathise with the dealings that he had been subjected to. She balked at the very thought of this strong-willed elf being tormented and abused at the leisure of a power-hungry bastard who was more darkspawn than man. It was any wonder his perspective was so black and white, when magic had done nothing but burn him his entire life—or at least for the duration of what he could remember of it. 

Hawke's gaze shifted in said man's direction. He wore the brands of his tormentor with affluence and dignity, the sharpness of his profile summoning butterflies unwittingly in her tummy as he stared into the flickering embers in the hearth ahead of them. Green clashed with green as he locked eyes with hers, his expression solemn, expectant. Then she remembered that he had asked her a question.

“A sovereign for your thoughts?” His tone was a lukewarm rumble, deep and luxurious, as he extended a hand out towards her. It took her two excruciatingly long seconds to realise that he was inclining his head towards the half empty bottle of piss-water wine she had in her possession, and her cheeks flushed with colour as she returned it to him without ever having a sip herself. His hands were bereft of their usual armour, and it occurred to Payne that she had never seen him without his gauntlets firmly affixed to his arms. She had come to associate them as an extension of his physical body, and so to see his flesh on display was truly a privilege indeed. 

There was something delicate, almost fragile, about their structure. His hands were larger than the typical elven man, to match his rather ungainly height (a height that was rarely ever attained for his race.) She took great pleasure in the fact that for once, a man was taller than she was, even if the difference was only moderate at best. She had half an inch on him with her boots intact, but there was a comfortable gap between them where she could brush her nose against his if she tilted her head upward when she was without them. 

It was perfect really, the moderate sliver of height between them. She could look him in the eye whilst feeling small, secure; with Fenris, Payne never felt vulnerable, like at any given moment he would overpower her with his physique, even though she knew better than anyone that he was more than capable of doing so. He was deceptively lanky, for the rippling musculature that lay dormant beneath his lithe limbs could break a man twice his size clean in half, should the fancy strike him. He could accomplish a great deal of dastardly feats with his bare hands alone, and Danarius was to blame for that. He was accountable for all of Fenris's pain and suffering, and Hawke could only hope that she could help him attain retribution for his mistreatment. 

In the meantime, just having him by her side, in her company, was more than enough. It had to be. Thoughts of him ever leaving, although a very distinct and practical reality for the man himself, was almost too unbearable to contemplate. Payne was so used to having him there that she was sure a gaping void would be left in the wake of his absence. And she wasn't sure if she would ever be able to fill it, should he make truth of her greatest fear. Maker, she had it bad. 

“Should I take that out of my pay cut in advance, since you have a knack for attaining those sovereigns through yours truly?” Payne quipped smartly, her lips a perpetual grin as she shifted her weight so that she was leaning back on her open palms, flattened against the floor beneath them. 

Fenris chuckled, the sound coming easily after three bottles of wine and a bottle of Aveline's spirits. A gift in thanks for their services to Kirkwall and The Guard. The luxurious timbre was enough to steal the very breath from her lungs. In times past, whenever he had inexplicably displayed his mirth for all to see, he was quick to smother it with an awkward cough; like his voice wasn't used to making such a breathless imitation of true laughter. Like he wasn't used to taking pleasure in his own amusement. It dawned on her in that moment that that was probably the case. 

“And I told you that I am good for it. I always repay my debts, Hawke.” Fenris murmured sincerely, orange speckles of firelight dancing across his moss-green irises as he met her gaze with his own. Her stomach dropped tumultuously low, practically bubbling with nervous excitement as he looked at her with a crooked smirk dancing on the very corners of his lips. Payne lived for moments like this, where he was completely unguarded—relaxed enough in his own shell that he almost seemed... Normal. Unaffected by the horrors of his life before he met her. 

“Shall I pilfer Varric's stash of Antivan Brandy in celebration of that momentous occasion? Should it, as you proclaim so confidently, come to pass sometime in the near future?” Hawke rebuffed playfully, tone wry but dripping with meaning as she sent a charming smile his way. Fenris huffed out a breathy sort of laugh, eyes deepening in their quest to search every line and contour of his companion's face until he had it etched into his memory. He might not possess the faculties to recall his past life, but he would be damned if he didn't make the most of what he could remember now. And this woman's, this warrior's, beautiful visage was one he knew he would never be able to forget for the life of him. 

“A woman after my own heart. You spoil me so.”

“I live to please. At least you would be poisoning your body with a higher grade liquor. More fruit in Antiva's vintages, I hear.” Payne quipped sagely, promptly tittering to herself as the warmth of her night of debauched self-indulgence began to kick in. She was moderately tipsy; right enough in the head that getting home would be a simple enough affair, but dull enough that she wondered idly if she would even be able to peel herself away from the floor to try. 

“Back to my eating habits Hawke? And here I thought we had ticked that box and moved on. Such a waste of dialogue.” What should have been a scathing remark was nothing but charismatic sweetness on his tongue, and Hawke took a moment to revel in the sound as she formulated a witty-esque response. Or as witty as she could be, in her present condition. 

“I think you meant your _non-existent_ eating habits, Fenris. You could at least _attempt_ to eat the actual grape. It'd be a wild ride, minus the all-day-all-night hangover. You might like it.”

“Somehow I highly doubt that, but thank you. For your,” he paused to cough in what could have been construed as an utterance of mild embarrassment, “concern. I... It is appreciated.” If it weren't so dark, if she weren't quite as inebriated as she currently was, and if his bronzed complexion were only a shade lighter, Hawke could have sworn he was blushing. But it was a fleeting, fanciful notion at best. He tipped his head back, pulling deep mouthfuls from the head of the bitter bottle of wine and casting a permanent shadow over his face as he did so. She would never truly know, then. 

“It's my pleasure, Fenris. Friends look out for each other, after all.” Payne exclaimed simply, the easiness of her claim not going over said elf's head. Surprise registered amongst the prominent features of his face, and a solemn, bittersweet feeling filled his chest. Naturally, Hawke didn't miss the change in his demeanour, and guilt reared its ugly head in the pit of her stomach. Great, she had inadvertently offended him with her words. _Well done on alienating him even more, Payne. Minus ten friendship points for the mention of “friendship.”_

“I-I'm sorry, perhaps I inferred too much...?”

“No. No, it isn't that.” Fenris murmured softly, his voice echoing in the din that had settled between them as he mulled over his thoughts a moment longer. The crackling of wood splintering under the pressure of heated flame was otherwise the only other sound that passed between them for a good few minutes, save for their easy breathing. The Tevinter elf was thoroughly bemused, to tell the truth. He had never before encountered someone who was not only worthy of his respect and utmost admiration, but who had also been so selflessly giving before now. 

He had lied to her from their very first encounter, using her reputation as a test of might in order to deign her of some consequence in his quest to find and kill his former master. Even then, she had only smiled kindly at him, extending her services to him like the sting of his dishonesty was irrelevant. How she could have been so diplomatic amidst the face of the brand of danger his presence summoned he would never know, but then, she was more than she appeared on the surface. 

She was witty, sharp as a tack in the darkest of nights, and possessed in her levels of sass that left him as amused as he was flustered. Mostly since she turned on the flattery to the nth degree, her casual flirtations with death only heightening her need to tease him until he was rendered utterly speechless in her wake. She had made her attraction to him no secret; after all, most shemlen found the Elvhenan brand of beauty extremely pleasing to their eye. He had grown accustomed to being fawned over by the humans, manhandled in moments where he was incapable of retaliation lest he incur the wrath of Danarius. So he was hardly moved to know that Hawke felt the same way.

But unlike the others, of whom he was always impartial to, the knowledge that _this particular_ shem saw his appeal—both physically and as a person, rather than _for an elf_ —stirred something foreign within him. Something akin to... Pride? He was unfamiliar with the sensation, but the warmth that filled him at her proclamation of friendship was not altogether unpleasant. He could get used to it.

He toyed with the mouth of the now empty wine bottle with idle fingertips, lips drawn taut with a bitter smile as he raised his gaze to meet with Payne's once more. 

“I am... Unused to such kindness. Living with a man such as Danarius taught me that everyone has ulterior motives, and that to trust in another is a fool's errand. And yet, having met you, I feel as though it is not a wasted effort. I did not have friends in my time as a slave, and I cannot recall anything of my life before then. But to know that I have someone I can rely on to watch my back, without fear of being stabbed from behind...” He paused then, feeling more than awkward as he opened up to someone for the first time in what felt like forever. Hawke hung on to his every word, utterly riveted as he sent her a small, vulnerable smile that was nothing short of genuine. 

“To know that I have a friend in you brings me great contentment. It... Occurs to me that I never thanked you. For standing by me when no one else ever did. Your belief in me... It means a lot. So thank you, Hawke. For everything.” His voice, a quiet, husky rumble, petered out into silence as he sucked in a breath; a second; a third. Payne's eyes were wide with surprise. She had hardly expected such a candid confession from him, especially considering how reserved he usually was. A part of her suspected it was because of the alcohol coursing through his veins. After all, a little bit of liquid courage went a long way with loosening stubborn tongues. 

And considering the liberal nature of their evening festivities, it should hardly come as a shock to her that he was being so upfront about his feelings. 

“I... You're always welcome, Fenris. I meant it when I said I'd always be on your side. I'm here for you, whenever you need me. That's... What friends are for.” Payne responded after several moments of contemplation, ignoring the sour taste that came to her mouth in wake of the connotations of her statement. She knew she would always be there for him, no matter where time took him; but what could she say of him? She knew where his loyalties were, at least for now, for they were with her. But once everything was said and done, Danarius slain and Fenris finally free of his chains for good, where would he stand with her? 

That was what worried her. The obvious outcome would be his departure from Kirkwall, for there was nothing for him here but an abundance of mages that he despised above all else and an ongoing issue with the sewerage. She would be foolish to assume that she was worth sticking around for. Never the less, she meant every word she had said. They were friends, and she would see to it, come hell or high water, that he would exact his revenge on the Magister who had ruined him. 

( _And spoiled though he may have been for everyone else, to her, he was perfection amidst his failings._ )

Fenris always looked surprised by the things she said and did for him. This was no different, as his naturally deep-set eyes widened and his lips parted with what could have been a gasp—had there been a sound vocalised. The wet sheen to his irises was both a product of his alcohol-induced stupor, and the flickering of flames from the fireplace, but beneath all of that there was a raw vulnerability that Hawke's words had touched upon that made his head fuzzy with heated warmth. 

Unwittingly he reached out, fingering the limp strands of brilliant white that brushed against the tops of her almost bared shoulders. She had elected to come to his manse in what could have been construed as underclothing, for the thin linen sheath that was her white undershirt was form-fitting enough that the subtle dips of her figure could be discerned. It laced up the front and left enough of a gap between her collarbone and her chest that the slightest sliver of cleavage peeked out from the top of her shirt. 

Fenris had politely averted his gaze upon several instances that evening when she had leaned a little too far his way for his liking; for although she was nowhere near as heavily endowed as Isabela, there was enough of her there to view that it left him moderately parched at the sight. Okay, so perhaps that was putting it lightly. He was so used to the dark skinned pirate's immodest demonstration of her body that it had been refreshing to be around Hawke, who was dressed up to the neck in true warrior fashion. As his armour was a part of him, so too was hers, and so it was strangely surreal to see the evidence of her femininity so plainly on display. 

It wasn't as if she was spilling out or showing too much skin, not at all. Her loose fitting pants fell around her ankles, and the cut was merely a suggestion of what lay beneath, whilst her white cotton blouse was rolled up at the sleeves around her elbows—leaving a generous spatter of ankle, arm and neck on show for his viewing pleasure. But it was more of her than he had ever dreamed of seeing, and the reality of it was better than anything that his mind could have concocted, even on his most... _imaginative_... day. 

He toyed with the ends of her hair, marvelling over the soft texture that greeted his calloused fingertips. Hers was as haunting a shade of whitish silver as his own, and he had been curious about its origin for months now. Especially considering her sister Bethany's mane of almost-black hair. Apparently her whole family had been darker at the roots for generations, as the sweet little mage girl (he still struggled to accept the fact that there was _actually_ an apostate in the world he was _fond_ of, but it seemed like the likability of the Hawke's was something impossibly inevitable that could not be rationalised or understood) had once told him on a previous quest. 

“You never did answer my question.” Fenris stated with a growing smile, and it was in that very moment that he realised that perhaps he was a little more inebriated than he had initially assumed, for he would never wear such a soft expression so openly otherwise. 

“Ever the self-professed lord of changing the subject.” Payne threw back quickly, the snarky bite to her tone summoning a chuckle from the depths of his chest in response. 

“The sentimentality wore itself thin, my friend. Tired topics should be laid to rest.” His tone dripped with mirth, and he sighed in contentment as he stretched out his long limbs until the tops of their thighs touched imperceptibly. Close enough that he could feel the heat emanating from her covered skin. He swallowed. It suddenly felt sweltering, sitting so close to the fireplace. 

“Fair enough, I suppose. The quota for melancholy and sappiness _was_ getting rather full, wasn't it?” Hawke mused plaintively, her expression intentionally thoughtful as she reached up to finger a stray strand of hair that had fallen into her face. 

“Right, well, back to your question. 'Why is my hair white?' Long story that, but I'll endeavour to censor out the embellishments for your convenience.”

Fenris scoffed at that, the sound caught between a snort and laughter as he stared her down with an intensity that had her shifting alongside him. 

“Your selflessness knows no bounds, it appears.”

“Oh hush you, or do you not wish to hear of my life's biggest blunder?”

“By all means, continue.” He didn't even try to mask his laughter then, and although the the sound was a wispy imitation of what it could have once sounded like before Danarius, it rang true and fierce in Payne's ears. Her heart thumped a little faster. 

“Let's see here. I was what, four years old? Maybe five. To be honest I'm not really sure, since it's been so long since then. But I was small, still just a babe, and I was as troublesome as a nug in dragon droppings—don't look at me like that! _'If the shoe fits'_ and all that!” Hawke exclaimed indignantly, her cheeks puffing out at the humoured glint in Fenris's eyes. 

“As I was saying,” she continued, clearing her throat for extra measure. “I was trouble. I had curiosity in spades, and no outlet whatsoever. I think I told you once that my father was an apostate, yes?” When he merely nodded in response, she barrelled onward into her tale.

“My father, Malcolm Hawke, met my mother, Lady Leandra Amell, through one of many demonstrations of his skills at the Amell estate. They liked to say it was 'love at first Blight,' considering the times, and I think it was that humour that preserved them for so long on the run.”

“When mother found out she was with child with me, she eloped with father. The Amell lineage had enough magic in their blood as it was that they were not receptive of having an apostate's bastard in contention with their nobility. Mother loved father, so they married and moved away to have me in secrecy, all the while running from the Templars. We had a comfortable life, up until the birth of the twins. I still cry for Carver, truth be told.” Hawke paused for a moment, voice thick with drink and emotion as she swallowed back the worst of her tears. She was the kind of drunk that was prone to extreme cycles of aggression, happiness and depression, and there was never any in between. 

“A-Anyway, while mother was still pregnant with my siblings, my father was often away, finding work wherever he could. He always told me, with this stern look on his face, that I was not to cause mischief for mother while he was gone, that I was to be a good little warrior princess for him. And I was, for the most part. Until that day.” Fenris furrowed his brow, leaning his weight on his right hand as he searched her expression for something that was beyond his grasp. There was a morose, almost tranquil, quality to her visage, and he realised then that that was what it looked like to be lost in memory. Something his own mind had no claim upon. 

“... I had left mother in her room as she had a nap. All of her energy was thrown into maintaining the twins, and so she needed to rest often. Of course, as a small child full of energy to burn, rest was not an option, so I snuck out when I was sure she was asleep so that I could play outside. I played for hours, out in the garden. You know that it's springtime when the flowers are in full bloom, and I revelled in them like I had been starved of oxygen. It rained a lot in Lothering, after all. Flowers, the ones that didn't drown, were a rare treat indeed.” Hawke's voice took on a nostalgic tone, and Fenris envied her for her stake upon it. 

“Aa~aand as all people do, they get thirsty. Short story is that I couldn't reach the tap water, being too small, so I snuck into father's study. I remembered that he kept bottles stowed away in the chest on the floor, and he rarely ever locked it because he was sure that I had no interest in meddling with his things. Boy was he ever wrong about that.” Payne exclaimed, a snarky smirk twisting her lips as a wry smile made its way onto Fenris's face. 

Somehow he was not surprised by this particular revelation. Whenever they stumbled upon a locked chest on their quests, Payne was always the first to throw herself atop it, claiming it for herself as she nagged for Varric (or Isabela, but usually there was a competition between them to see who could pry open its contents first) to pick the lock. The devious glint in her eyes and expression in moments such as those only reinforced her claims of being a miscreant filled to the brim with mischief, and served to make imagining her as a child an easier affair for the elf—for surely the essence of who she was had not been lost even after all that time. 

Her sweetness was balanced out by her penchant for bad puns and offhanded flirtations, and Fenris could only shake his head in the wake of his mounting fondness for her. 

“Naturally, I picked up one of the blue bottles—never mind the fact that it was _glowing_ , the first hint that it was not, in fact, water—because in my experience, water was blue, like the sky. A sky that dripped out of the faucet and remained trapped inside a transparent flask apparently. Anyways,” Payne paused for a moment, nudging Fenris with a playful elbow to his side when he snorted at her sidetracked musing. 

“Mock me for my incredible lapse in judgement _after_ the story is told! _Honestly_! Haven't you learned anything at all from listening to Varric spinning yarn? Do not interrupt the giver of gifts!” 

“Duly noted, Hawke.”

“Good. _Anyways_ ,” she paused for dramatic effect, hoping to stir some more friendly banter up between them, but when Fenris only coaxed her on with the raising of one dark eyebrow (a very nice eyebrow, might she add), she muffled an embarrassed cough behind her hand before continuing. 

“I sculled the entire bottle in one hit and passed out seconds later. Apparently I hit my head pretty good too, because I'm told I had a concussion from my fall. When I came to, my mother was sobbing hysterically while father was frantically trying to pump my stomach of one of his lyrium potions. He told me, when I was a little older and wiser, that I had had a mild case of lyrium poisoning, and as a result of that, it bleached my body hair white to the very roots.” Payne huffed out a breathy snort, the sound crass in comparison to the refined slouch she had settled her posture into. 

Fenris felt something akin to a sickening lurch roil low and deep in his gut at the thought of Hawke, small and oh so very naive, lying in a feverish chill and slowly dying as liquid fire scoured through her veins. He knew intimately what that felt like, as he lived with the constant dry searing coiled around every inch of his flesh and bone. He would never wish such a fate on anyone, circumstantial in its happening or otherwise. Payne's voice pulled him from his musings, and he found his gaze riveted on the gentle rise and fall of Hawke's chest. She was here. She was alive. He was unsure as to why he was reassured by that fact, and his chest tightened with what he could only describe as sheer and utter _relief_. 

“Supposedly there are several compounds, namely orichalcum, that left untreated and in its natural state, can peel the muscle out of any man. I was fortunate that father got to me when he did, otherwise... Well, I made a full recovery, even if my hair will never be the same again. That suits me just fine. I think it looks rather dashing, eh?” She grinned up at him, bright green eyes sparkling with mirth as his darker irises narrowed in quiet appraisal of her. Even against her fair skin, her hair was stark, a pristine shade of ivory that glowed iridescently under any lighting. 

Fenris thought of the fullest of moons on a blanket of satiny darkness whenever he saw her, thought of a clear and luminous brightness lighting up the darkest of nights so that he could see the world around him with a clarity that was mildly alarming. When he was by her side, obstacles ceased to exist. Anything and everything was made possible with her cutting optimism and chilling overconfidence in the face of absolute adversity, and he was helplessly swept up alongside her. Never traipsing behind; always on equal footing, always on his own terms. Him and her. Together. Companions, benefactors. _Friends_. 

The look of contemplation on Fenris's face summoned an onslaught of butterflies in Hawke's tummy. He was taking her jesting quip at face value, evaluating her seriously with deep-set evergreen eyes that gave nothing of his inner musings away. She couldn't maintain her gaze, for the intensity inscribed in the depths of his penetrating stare had her heart stuttering into overdrive. Palms sweaty, Payne fiddled with the hem of her shirt, inconspicuously wiping them against the coarse fabric. If Fenris noticed her sudden surge of awkward shyness, he said nothing, merely considering her a moment longer with piercing green eyes. 

A touch of hesitation halted his nerve as he reached out to cup the back of Hawke's head. He was not used to the concept of touch, and even though he was more than aware that she welcomed it (she was incredibly tactile with the rest of their motley crew, after all), he couldn't help the niggling sense of paranoia that washed over him. It was ironic, really, that although he was free of Danarius, his hold over him still lingered like an iron collar branded around his neck. Slaves were not permitted to touch, only _to be_ touched, and only at the whims of their master. Try as he might to shirk off the impulse to obey, it was ingrained into his very being, and so he held fast to his stiff posturing. Awaiting permission to continue. 

Thankfully it came quickly, and without the uncharacteristic hesitance on Fenris's part. Payne leaned into his palm, where his fingers splayed carelessly amidst the silky threads of her hair. Her cheeks were flushed from heat and drink, darkening the lines of her vallaslin and leaving them stark in contrast to the fairness of her complexion. Another curiosity of hers. A shemlen bearing the mark of the Dales? Hawke was one big question mark. Just when he thought he had her more or less figured out, another quirk revealed itself to his unsuspecting eyes. 

Of course he had meant to ask her, and had attempted to do so once. It was the first, and only time, that she had physically closed herself off from him, expression dark and moody as an electrical storm. He was wise enough to never bring it up again. She would tell him, in her own time, and only when she wished to. He knew better than anyone never to pick at old wounds. She had respected his privacy, and had never pushed for more details than were absolutely necessary with regards to his past life as a slave. It was only right to do the same. 

The muscles in his hand twitched, the warmth from her scalp sending tingles of heat in slow-burning ripples up the entirety of his arm. He curled his fingers tentatively into her hair, surprised by its thickness. He could only imagine what it must have been like when it was longer, darker. The silver-white locks almost glowed against his bronzed complexion, and for the first time he had a gauge on what his own hair must have looked like against his skin. He wasn't of the habit of seeking out his reflection, after all. 

Payne was a little stunned at the sudden contact, to be perfectly honest. She could see him reaching out to her, eyes unguarded and vulnerable as he initiated what was their first real moment of touch. And then he had stiffened, expression schooling itself into neutrality as he lingered about an inch away from his destination. She realised with a sickening lurch in her stomach that this expression, this rigid posturing, was a remnant of his former life. Hawke was quick to correct this. No way would he ever feel anxious or afraid of her. As long as he remained by her side, Danarius could not touch him. She would see to that personally. 

Not wishing to startle him by being too “grabby,” Payne rested her weight against his outstretched palm, allowing him the power to pull away should he wish to. She smiled sweetly at his look of dubious wonder, folding her hands over her lap so as to prevent herself from reaching out and touching him out of turn. He visibly relaxed, tenseness easing away as he smoothed his fingers through her hair in a tentative stroke that had hot tingles of surprise shooting down her spine. 

“I am inclined to agree. Rather dashing indeed.” Fenris murmured, a gravelly rumble that rose the hairs on the back of Payne's neck. Her heart was pounding inside of her chest, rattling insistently against the inside of her ribcage, and her mouth was suddenly very, _very_ dry. 

His lips quirked strangely, and it was only after she had sobered up that she realised that the ghost of a true smile had made itself fleetingly apparent on his handsome face.

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**Ending Remarks:** _I'm new to AO3—my usual haunt is Fanfiction.Net—so apologies for any inconsistencies apparent here. Any feedback would be greatly appreciated. If you have the time or are so inclined, feel free to check me out on my main sites (links in Bio.)_  


Until next time.  


**_-x-Rin-x-_ **


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